


and my ink's run out

by recursion



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Universe, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, POV Akechi Goro, honestly the flower is just a plot device, intended to be happy but can be read as sad, me being emo about akechi ft. poor attempts to be funny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:40:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recursion/pseuds/recursion
Summary: The petals are everywhere. They’re strewn all across the floor, piled thick enough to obscure the familiar geometric pattern of his bathroom tiles. Akechi’s first thought isthis isn’t going to fit in an evidence bag, and his second thought is, simply,fuck.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 13
Kudos: 270





	and my ink's run out

**Author's Note:**

> i'm such a sorry sucker for typical angsty fanfiction tropes so here's my take on hanahaki. this is set in canonverse, though i took some liberties with some scenes + dialogue.
> 
> title from [neptune by sleeping at last](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkCB4ATLCo0)\--please listen to it/look up the lyrics at some point they k*ll me

Akechi Goro is sitting in third period Japanese literature writing an essay on Natsume Sōseki’s _Kokoro_ when his throat starts to itch.

It’s a cough. Normally he’d just cough, but this one—it feels tickly, like the kind of cough that might go on long enough to make his classmates uncomfortable. He grabs his water bottle and excuses himself to the restroom. Bolts himself into a stall.

Before he can take a sip of water, he coughs a dozen little flower petals into his lap.

Okay, Akechi thinks. And then— _what the fuck._

He packs slowly after school ends, biding his time until everyone leaves. He’ll need to consult a doctor, but he can’t risk going to a big hospital in a major metro center; someone might see him walking in, and he doesn’t need any kind of media focus that doesn’t contribute to building and maintaining his Detective Prince persona.

He remembers a clinic Ren told him about, a small one tucked in the alleys near Leblanc. The appointment should be short. He can stop by the cafe after for a cup of Boss’ coffee. He takes his usual route back to his apartment, where he sheds his blazer and gloves for a t-shirt and jeans, and puts the fake glasses and baseball cap he’s had stashed since those girls had recognized him at Woodberry’s with Ren. A quick train ride later, Akechi finds himself standing in front of a large, slightly dirty sign that reads “Takemi Clinic.”

A bell jingles slightly as he pushes the door open. A woman with cropped blue hair and stern eyes looks up from her seat behind a small window. She gives him a once-over. Turns back to her work.

“I don’t prescribe Adderall,” she says.

“I’m not here for Adderall,” Akechi replies. He’s not sure how he feels about her assumption.

“I don’t prescribe whatever you heard about either,” she says, not looking up.

“I’m not here for a prescription,” Akechi replies. “I’d like a consultation.”

“I don’t do consultations,” Takemi says, but this time she looks up at him and tilts her head. “You look familiar.”

Akechi sighs. He takes off his glasses and cap, fixes his hair.

“Oh, I’ve seen you on TV. Akechi Goro, right?”

“Right,” he says. “Now—”

“Sorry, just because you’ve been on TV doesn’t mean I’ll do special favors for you,” she cuts him off with a frown. “Surely you know of doctors at better hospitals.”

“I’d rather not end up in the tabloids for visiting a hospital,” Akechi manages with his most disarming smile. He can see it in her face; in the last minute, her opinion of him has shifted from shady high school student to entitled TV prick. “I was told about you by an acquaintance. He mentioned that you’re very discreet.” _Probably out of necessity_ , he doesn’t add.

“An acquaintance?” Takemi muses, before—“Oh. Was it Amamiya-kun?”

Akechi doesn’t answer. All he does is smile and repeat, “I’d like a consultation, please.”

Takemi looks back at him and his bright, fake smile and sighs. “Aren’t you a piece of work,” she says, but she waves him into the consultation room anyway. Akechi takes a cursory glance around the space; it’s small, just barely managing to fit a desk, some chairs, a patient bed, and some bookshelves. But it seems clean enough. Takemi sits herself down on her swivel chair and motions for him to take a seat on the patient bed.

“What brings you here today?” she asks, a clipboard poised in her lap.

Akechi pulls a baggie out of his pocket. In it are the petals he’d coughed up earlier. He’d been lucky enough to have a spare (unused, of course) evidence bag in the pocket of his uniform.

“Hanahaki disease, I assume,” Takemi says, taking the proffered baggie. She peers at it, turns it over a few times, and then sets it on a small scale on the corner of her desk. “You’re a smart kid, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

He does. But hanahaki has always struck him as something of an urban legend; everyone talks about it, but he’s known no one who actually suffered it. It’s rare, as it doesn’t appear in every single person afflicted with an unrequited love. Only those with particularly tragic, or powerful loves, is what the rumors say; neither of those are true, if _he_ ’s the one who got it.

“I’ve heard it’s the mark of a soulmate,” Takemi says, fiddling with another contraption. “Only for people who are destined for each other. They can have a beautiful love, but they have to suffer for it.” It sounds like the nonsense his mother’s fortune-teller friend spouted, the one who read his palms while drunk on Asahi Super Dry and told him he’d live a long and happy life.

“Seems more like a curse,” Akechi replies. Takemi chuckles. She pulls a thin binder off the shelves next to her desk and flips through it.

“Love itself is something of a curse, don’t you think?”

Akechi gives her an accommodating smile but doesn’t reply. He’s not here to talk teenage angst and philosophy with a back-alley doctor; he just wants his problem solved. Preferably with minimal suffering.

“Do you know who it is?” she asks as she trades the binder for a different one.

He might. He thinks of—no, he’s not sure. He doesn’t have time for _feelings_ ; he’s run from his own for so long that he can barely understand them anymore. In the end it’s simple—he doesn’t know anything for sure, and he doesn’t say anything unnecessary.

“I don’t,” he says, schooling his face into an expression of disappointment. Takemi stops flipping for a moment to stare. He feels uncomfortable. Her gaze is piercing, the sharp intelligence behind them in contrast to the lazy way she drapes herself on her chair and the dubious rumors about her practice.

“I know your type,” she says, but she doesn’t sound judgmental. “You lie as easy as breathing.”

Akechi bristles but says nothing.

“Well, I won’t force you. You might lie, but hanahaki doesn’t, so here you are.” She plucks a file out of the binder, seemingly having found the one she was looking for. “I can manage your symptoms, if you’re struggling from nausea or pain, but to treat the root cause you’ll have to undergo surgery to have the flower removed. However, the procedure will also remove your feelings and prevent you from loving that person ever again. Any general surgeon can probably perform the operation, but I have a friend at the JR General Hospital who has some experience with this surgery in particular. I’m happy to provide a referral.”

A quick search on the train had revealed surgery as his only option as well. He’d braced himself for it, or at least he thought he had, but surgery—being rendered unconscious and sliced open, at the mercy of total strangers—thinking on it again, he’d rather not.

“Is it not possible for the feelings to fade away naturally?” Akechi asks.

Takemi looks at him curiously. “You expect them to?”

“Well, yes,” Akechi cocks his head. They’re just feelings. Temporary. Transient. Unnecessary.

She looks at him for a moment, thoughtful. “What a strange kid you are,” she says. “Usually when people fall in love, they’re convinced that it’ll be for forever. That they’ve found the _one_. A love undying and eternal.”

Akechi almost laughs. Who would have thought Takemi Tae, antisocial doctor extraordinaire, was a hopeless romantic.

“That’s not what I’m thinking,” Akechi smiles. “So, it’s possible, then?”

“It’s certainly a theory,” Takemi muses. “If you feel like courting death, I can’t stop you.”

“I’m glad we’ve come to an understanding,” Akechi replies. But since he doesn’t actually have a death wish, not until December, he adds—“I’d like to come for regular checkups though, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, sure,” Takemi says, almost too enthusiastic. Finally. He’s been upgraded to a person she finds intriguing. A person she wants around. “In fact, I won’t make you pay if you promise to return. I haven’t had such an interesting study in a while.” She pulls a pad off her desk, scribbling a quick prescription. He takes the note. It’s totally illegible.

“Bismuth subsalicylate for nausea, ibuprofen for any pain,” she explains. A doctor, through and through. Thinking things can be fixed by pills. “The instructions will be on the box. Come back if anything happens or you want a referral.”

Akechi leaves. He doesn’t stop by Leblanc. Instead he goes home and throws the script right in the trash. Pills. Just another unnecessary thing in his life.

He almost wishes he’d filled them though, the next time he stops by Leblanc and sees Ren behind the counter. Almost immediately his gut lurches, a wave of nausea threatening to overtake him. He feels the flower tremble. He swallows, rides it out.

“Are you okay?” Ren asks when he sees him. He’s preparing a pour-over, kettle moving languidly in little circles. “You look a bit pale.”

“I’m fine,” Akechi smiles. “Just need to use the restroom—the usual, would you?”

“Roger,” Ren replies, with a joking salute.

Akechi barricades himself in the toilet and buries his head in his hands. It’s Ren. As soon as he’d stepped into Leblanc he _knew_. No—even before then. Few people in his life have treated him with warmth, even fewer treated him as an equal. Ren always had, from the beginning. Was that how it started? Was his heart so weak and soft that he would latch onto anyone who gave him the time of day and genuinely meant it?

He doesn’t even know, even with the evidence, whether or not what he feels for Ren can be called _love_. It’s certainly an interest, a fascination with what he does and who he is. Even a little jealousy, for the way he seems to effortlessly grasp things that Akechi has spent years perfecting, polishing to a mirror shine. But beyond that—there’s nothing.

 _Soulmates_ , Takemi had said. Drivel, useless drivel, all of it. Akechi is a realist, he knows what he can and cannot have. He knows what someone like him does and doesn’t deserve. Love—in all its myriad, multifaceted forms—has always been at the top of that very long list. And besides. In a few months, Ren will be dead, Shido will be in jail, and Akechi’s revenge will be complete. That’s all he’s needed. Needs. Soft things like _love_ and _feelings_ have always been discarded for that end, why would he get emotional now?

He coughs lightly into a wad of tissue paper and flushes it down the toilet. When he steps out of the bathroom, he’s greeted by the familiar aroma of his favorite blend. He takes his usual seat at the bar, in front of the coffee grinder, and takes a sip.

“You’ve improved,” Akechi says. Ren’s coffee tends to err on the side of being slightly bitter, or slightly charred, but the cup in front of him his a damn near approximation to Boss’.

“High praise, coming from you,” Ren replies. There’s no one else in the shop; then again, there rarely is. In the soft glow of lamplight, the rich, warm wood paneling of the walls, Ren is—very handsome, as much as it pains Akechi to admit it. Even with his undereye circles and that hair that looks like an overgrown bush. He looks more cheerful than usual, actually, though Akechi doesn’t know why and would never ask.

Ren continues fiddling with the coffee implements as they go through the usual pleasantries; school, the weather, any interesting cases Akechi might have perused recently. Ren reveals that he’s started learning shogi from one of Yusuke’s classmates; the conversation turns from shogi to chess, which Akechi has a bit more expertise in. The conversation ends with Akechi’s cell phone buzzing. Normally he’d ignore it, but a quick glance at the FROM: field reveals Shido’s name. _Fuck._

“Duty calls,” Akechi says, finding that for once, he’s truly as regretful as he sounds. He puts some coins on the counter, but Ren pushes them back towards him.

“It’s on the house today,” he says with a crooked grin.

“Why?”

“You looked like you were having a rough time,” Ren shrugs, and when Akechi makes a noise of protest, he laughs. “All right, fine, fine. It’s for keeping me company this afternoon. How about that?”

Akechi grumbles, but he takes the coins back. He’s not exactly wanting for money, but there’s only so much money he can make as a minor attending high school full time.

He leaves Leblanc, feeling warmth on his cheeks and a twisting in his gut.

Ren texts him before he sleeps that night, a link to an article about the shogi girl. Hifumi Togo. The name sounds familiar. He thinks he’s heard it before, at the studio, maybe. It would make sense. From a quick skim of the article, it sounds like she’s being set up to be a teenage idol, kind of like him. She definitely has the looks for it; pretty face, slim waist. He doesn’t know why that offends him so much.

 _I feel bad for her,_ Ren’s text reads.

> _What do you mean?_

_The article misrepresents her. She’d prefer to stay out of the spotlight. I’s really her mom who wants her to go to talk shows and do interviews, but they make it sound like she’s the one who wants it. She said she just wants to play good shogi, like her father did._

> _Not everyone chooses fame. If she’s truly that skilled, she’ll become famous, whether she likes it or not._

_Are you talking about yourself?_

> _No comment._

“I chose this,” Akechi says, when Ren doesn’t respond. He turns off his phone and huddles underneath the covers of his single bed, one of the three pieces of furniture in his otherwise-bare twenty-five square meter box of an apartment. “I chose this.”

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince.

He tries to stay away from Leblanc after that. Interacting with Ren has always done strange things to his psyche, leaving him open, more vulnerable; and it’s even worse now that he has to worry about hacking up a lung every time he visits.

But he finds himself there anyway. Sometimes Niijima drags him there for a change of pace, sometimes he wanders there on his own—probably the starting symptoms of a full-blown caffeine dependency, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it. Each time Ren is his charming, enigmatic self; talking to him is like a breath of fresh air. It feels like Ren talks to him simply because he enjoys his company. Because he wants to. Everyone else—everyone else just want something out of him. Want him to be _someone,_ whatever role is most convenient, slots most neatly into their world and their existence in it.

Ren allows him to be a little more himself, and be okay with it.

So it’s on a whim, _just a whim_ , that one night, when dusk falls on Leblanc, he invites Ren to the jazz club.

They have an excellent time at the jazz club. Ren has a surprisingly astute ear for rhythm and harmony, humming along a few times with his own casual improvisations. He seems to be instantly good at everything, and Akechi hates him a little bit for it. But that’s not—the jazz club is not the problem.

The problem happens afterward, in his apartment, when Akechi, drunk on the warmth, the afterglow of the evening, has the worst coughing fit of his _life_.

The petals are everywhere. They’re strewn all across the floor, piled thick enough to obscure the familiar geometric pattern of his bathroom tiles. Akechi’s first thought is _this isn’t going to fit in an evidence bag_ , and his second thought is, simply, _fuck._

He shovels as many petals as he can into a plastic grocery bag. A quick glance at his calendar reveals that he has a free slot the next afternoon to visit Takemi’s clinic. He falls into bed without double-checking his chemistry homework, and awakens to his alarm the next morning realizing he forgot to do half of it.

“You know who it is now, I presume?” Takemi asks when he steps foot into her office. He nods. No point in lying.

“Why don’t you just talk to them?” she says, sounding, surprisingly, genuinely curious. “Are you so sure you’ll be rejected?”

 _Because I’m going to put a bullet through his brain in two months’ time._ “I don’t think it’ll go well,” Akechi puts on a sheepish smile, touches the back of his neck for good measure. “He’s—well. I don’t think he’s like _that_.” It’s not strictly a lie; after all, it could be true—he doesn’t know what Ren’s inclinations are, and he’s surrounded by plenty of beautiful women.

It takes a few seconds for the words to register with Takemi, but she gives me a soft “ah” in response. “Are you sure?” she asks, picking up her clipboard and swiveling around to face him. She continues tapping a pencil against the board. _Tap tap tap._ Always tapping. Akechi doesn’t reply, he just continues smiling, and she gets the hint. Yes, he’s sure. _Tap tap tap._ She changes tack. “How bad is it, now?”

Akechi pulls open his knapsack and hands her the grocery bag, which has taken on a pinkish hue. Takemi looks alarmed. She doesn’t even bother to set it on her little scale this time. She just holds it up and says, “Wow.”

“How bad is it?” Akechi prompts her.

She sets the bag on her desk. “Adjusting for your higher rate of increase, I’d say you have maybe a week, a week and a half left until surgery is absolutely necessary. But earlier is better. Are you sure this is the right way to go about it?”

Akechi laughs. “I thought we had an understanding,” he says. He won’t be done in by something like this. Feelings. Transient, temporary, unnecessary. And he’ll prove it.

“I’m still a doctor,” Takemi narrows her eyes. “I’d rather you be alive than dead, at the end of the day.”

 _“_ A week and a half is plenty of time,” Akechi replies lightly. “You’ll see. There’s still time yet.”

Takemi shrugs. “Well, don’t say I didn’t try to convince you,” she says. Akechi knows both of them consider her responses to be a barely passable attempt at convincing.

She writes him the same prescription as last time, even though there’s absolutely no reason for him to have gone through 30 days’ worth of ibuprofen in a week, and he stuffs in to his pocket to be forgotten.

 _A week and a half_ , Akechi muses, sandwiched between two suited salarymen staring at Twitter on their phones on the train home. It would do to have a plan, but this time, he doesn’t, really. He just knows his heart will wise up in due time. He’s not stupid, though. If a week passes and he’s still hurtling toward certain doom, he’ll go quietly to the operating room and choke back his bitterness at Takemi’s inevitable “told-you-so” and go on with his life.

And that will be that.

The flower strikes him with a vengeance a few days later, one of his full days at the Prosecutor’s office. Eight consecutive, excruciating hours under the watchful eye of Niijima Sae. A familiar sensation builds in his chest. _Goddammit._ It’s been less than an hour; the time span between episodes is growing shorter.

He excuses himself from the table, ignoring the single raised eyebrow Niijima gives him in return, and speed-walks down the halls to the restroom. Luckily, he passes no one on his way, and none of the stalls are occupied. He bolts himself into one and takes out his usual plastic baggie. He coughs into it, wincing at the taste of blood in the back of his throat. The only improvement that has come with the increasing frequency is that a manageable amount of petals is expelled each time. But still. Not exactly an ideal situation.

He dumps the contents of the bag into the toilet and flushes it. His reflection in the sink looks tired, haggard. Dark undereye circles. A rare pimple on his left temple. He splashes some water onto his face and makes his way back into the conference room, where Sae just stares at him, disturbingly quiet. She looks… thoughtful.

“Is there something on my face, Sae-san?” Akechi asks politely, trying not to snap under her glance. He hates it when she looks at him with a new expression, yet another face to parse and understand and cultivate the correct responses to.

“Are you okay?” she asks with her usual bluntness. “Medically?”

“Excuse me?” Akechi barely manages after a beat, wresting his mouth into a perfunctory smile. _What the fuck?_

“You’ve been using the restroom quite a lot.”

“Oh, that,” Akechi waves with a self-deprecating laugh. “Everything is fine, though I have found myself frequenting that cafe you recommended the other day more often than is healthy, probably. Coffee is a diuretic. As I’m sure you know.”

“Ah, Leblanc,” Niijima nods knowingly. Distracted from the flimsiness of his excuse by involving her tastes, her recommendations in the conversation. As adults are. “Well, as long as you’re keeping up with everything you’re supposed to.”

“I am,” Akechi smiles, razor-thin, and that’s that.

He heads to Leblanc at the end of the day. He always does, after having to spend an entire day around Niijima Sae. He doesn’t want to see another document; when he closes his eyes, lines of case file text wiggle across his vision.

Ren isn’t there when he walks in. A relief. Boss greets him, sounding bitter and jaded as he always does.

“The usual?” he asks. Akechi is about to reply in the affirmative, but Ren chooses that exact moment to waltz in the front door.

“You’re back,” Boss says. Ren gives him a nod, and turns a curious gaze to Akechi.

“I just got off work,” Akechi flashes him a grin that he hopes is both charming and tired. “It’s been a long day. Maybe we could talk for a bit?”

“If you’re that tired,” Boss says, “why don’t you go out to the bathhouse?”

“The bathhouse sounds wonderful,” Akechi says, despite it sounding utterly mundane and much more effort than it’s worth. But it might be better than trying to have a conversation in Leblanc with Boss standing over their shoulders. “Shall we, Amamiya-kun?”

Ren nods, and the two of them exit Leblanc together.

“It’s just over there,” Ren says. He continues walking just down the street before turning into a narrow entryway. On his right, Akechi sees a coin laundry, machines bouncing and humming and whirring. In front of him there’s a vending machine and a door next to it, steam misting from its edges. He watches as Ren walks up the vending machine and, with a speed that belies frequent practice, promptly empties the machine of all its drinks.

“A fan of soda?” Akechi asks.

“Something like that,” Ren replies smoothly as he scoops up the frankly absurd number of cans into his bag. His cat, Morgana, is nowhere to be seen. Akechi wonders where he went.

The bathhouse is fairly small, which makes sense for a bathhouse tucked into the dense, crowded neighborhoods of Tokyo. There are plenty of open lockers and Akechi gets changed quickly. He meets Ren in front of the entrance to the bathhouse proper, keeping his eyes trained on his face and his face only. He doesn’t miss the way Ren doesn’t do that, his furtive glimpse up and down his body.

 _Do you like what you see?_ some stupid devil part of his brain almost asks, but thankfully Ren has already opened the door and stepped inside. Akechi follows, dignity intact.

They settle into the water together. Akechi lets out a deep breath as the warmth flows over him, soothing his tired muscles. He feels the tension of the day, the effort it takes to maintain the mask of competence and confidence that he has to keep in front of Prosecutor Niijima, draining from his shoulders. It’s comforting, nostalgic, almost. He actually hasn’t been to a bathhouse in a while, now that he thinks about it. It’s been a long time since he’s had a reason to.

“It’s been a while,” Akechi says carelessly. _Fuck._ He must be more tired than he thought.

“A while?” Ren asks. He doesn’t miss anything.

“I used to visit one a lot when I was younger.” A voice at the back of his mind is telling him to stop, but—he’s tired. He’s so tired. He doesn’t want to think of an excuse and part of him--part of him _wants_ Ren to know. Maybe if Ren knows, he’ll abandon him, and then Akechi will be able to resent him. Will have something to hate him for. Hate is the opposite of love, right? “My family… my mother was a single mother. My father left her, after I was born. She raised me as best she could. She worked at a nightclub. When she brought men home, she would send me to the bathhouse.”

“You’ve had a rough time,” Ren says. He doesn’t look disgusted. In fact, he looks almost… sad. _Sad_.

 _Don’t pity me_ , Akechi thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead—“It’s all right. She didn’t do anything wrong. My father was the real despicable, rotten one. I hoped one day I could make him apologize to her. But she’s gone now.” _I wasn’t enough for her._ Akechi forces a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t meant to dump that on you. It really doesn’t mean anything anymore.” _Now that I’m a monster._

Ren looks at him without saying anything. Akechi doesn’t think he believes him.

Time to change the subject, before he says something else he regrets. “We’ve been in here a while. Are you okay?”

Ren’s pensive face turns instantly into a cheeky grin. “I can stay here until you’re ready to go,” he says, like a challenge, and in that moment, Akechi feels a weight lift from his shoulders, at the same time his stomach twists. Ren—He told Ren the truth. Some of it, at least. And nothing had changed.

_Why can’t you just give me a reason to hate you?_

“I’m used to very long baths,” he says with a smile. The conversation turns to other things, until Ren begins yawning, which makes Akechi yawn back. They clamber out and get changed, and Ren walks him to the station.

“The things we talked about,” Akechi begins, pausing a few steps down into the station. “I’ve never talked about them with anyone else before.”

Ren looks down at him. He’s backlit by the streetlamps, face unreadable. “I think it’s because we’re similar,” is all he says, and then he turns, and leaves.

 _Because we’re similar_. It’s such a foreign feeling that for several moments Akechi doesn’t know what it is—but then he realizes. It’s the feeling of being _understood_. Ren learned about his family—the ugliness of it, the stained imperfection of it—and yet. Afterward, to Ren, Akechi is still just Akechi. Not the shattered remains of a picture-perfect Detective Prince.

Akechi hates it. Not _him_. No, he hates—what? That it couldn’t have come earlier? That even if it had, he doesn’t know if he would have been strong enough to latch onto it, let it save him?

Even so, for the first night in quite a long time, Akechi sleeps long and unbroken.

Caught up in sudden requests from Shido and preparations for Okumura’s palace, he doesn’t realize until a few days later that the pressure in his chest has eased. His coughing fits have gotten both less frequent and less in volume, and when he tries to sense the flower, he thinks it might have gotten smaller. Sensing is such an imperfect form of measurement though, and even Takemi has never tried to measure the flower itself, only the weight and dimensions of itspetals.

He heads to her clinic on the appointed day, a week after the previous disaster. Takemi takes the baggie from him with a practiced look of indifference, but then she does an almost comical double take, peering at the bag with an expression of surprise. She prods at it a bit with her finger, sets it on the little portable scale in the corner of the desk, and turns back to him, eyes wide.

“I’ll be damned,” she says, and it sounds like praise. “You’re actually getting better.”

“The flower feels smaller too,” Akechi adds, and immediately shuts his mouth. Unnecessary information. “What’s the verdict?”

Takemi bites her lip, deep in thought. She taps at her desk with a pen, and speaks, though she sounds almost hesitant. “The disease isn’t life-threatening anymore. Surgery’s still on the table—it always is—but only voluntary. And obviously if you keep up this trajectory you’ll be cured, eventually. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I thought you said you rarely get cases of this sort to begin with,” Akechi says, and he gets a wry grin for his cheeky answer.

“Well, that too,” Takemi concedes. “But I’ve read the literature. Even in the context of hanahaki research as a whole, this is still a unique case.”

“So I take it that I’ve been successful?” Akechi smiles. Of course he’d been. Of course.

Takemi looks at him. He expected her to concede reluctantly., maybe roll her eyes. But she looks almost… pitying. Akechi feels his triumph melting away into annoyance. “Have you considered the other option?”

“The other option?”

“Your feelings being reciprocated,” Takemi says. She says it so lightly. So easily. Like it’s obvious, a foregone conclusion. How nice it must be, to think that way.

Akechi laughs. He hopes it doesn’t sound bitter. “Trust me,” he says, and the irony of the phrase is not lost on him. She shouldn’t trust him. No one should. “That’s not the case here.”

“All right,” she concedes, after a brief pause. She smiles. This one is fake. “Then yes, Akechi-kun. It seems like you’re succeeding.”

Takemi doesn’t walk him out after the meeting, instead telling him to show himself out as she bustles around her office, pulling binders off shelves in a frenzy. He leaves the clinic, significantly relieved. _It seems like you’re succeeding._ By the time the day comes around, he’ll be totally fine. Ren will no longer be a wrench in his plans; Akechi will be able to press that gun to his head and pull the trigger without worrying about what his flower might do, explode and fatally damage his internal organs or otherwise destroy his body out of spite and betrayal.

And beyond that—soon, _soon_ , he’ll stop _wanting_. People like him weren’t meant to want, to have, and it was only his hubris that allowed the flower to bloom.

He doesn’t stop by Leblanc that night. 

He doesn’t get a chance to go back, either, because the next day, the Phantom Thieves are on the move.

It’d all been part of the plan. One of Shido’s IT cronies had fudged the votes on the stupid, garish Phan-site, and then it had just been waiting for the Phantom Thieves, naive and overconfident and hungry for justice, to take the bait. All Akechi had to do was hang around Mori Tower in the afternoons after school and wait for the familiar silhouettes of Ren and his band of merry misfits to arrive.

He wouldn’t have targeted Okumura for Shido’s sake on his own. It’s part of his agreement with Shido: he’s allowed to veto any and all palaces. This condition hadn’t sparked any kind of suspicion, because he had a valid reason for it—the first time he’d tried, early on in his Metaverse career, he’d had to drag himself to the ER with injuries that were explained only by Shido’s money. An expensive lesson, for the both of them. And Okumura’s palace is, Akechi has to admit, impressive. A bit beyond him, by himself.

So he lets the Phantom Thieves work through it for him instead. It’s simple enough to tail them a few rooms behind, watching them run here and there to satisfy the whims of Okumura’s shadow puppets. He’s been following them through the palaces since Kamoshida’s. He knows their codenames, their skills by heart. He has to admit, grudgingly, even from the far distance he’s been watching their battles—they’re skilled. Ren, especially, has a knack for both puzzles and strategy, and the rest of the thieves respect him, _trust_ him implicitly.

He hates it. Following them is an exercise in restraint, and also an exercise in quieting the voice in his head, the one that tells him he was not enough and will never be. Every time he returns home and has to update a dossier with a new skill, a new ability, or, in Ren’s case, the fifteen new personas he’s somehow managed to obtain—something like fear begins to creep up on him. That even in _this_ —soon, he’ll be bested.

The Thieves make it about halfway through the palace before Ren calls it a day. Everyone gathers in one of the strange rooms—safe rooms, he thinks they’re called—and Makoto whips out a bulky supply pack. Akechi takes the opportunity to leave the Metaverse before them. He hides behind a bush, poised with his phone in hand. He gets a few strange looks, of course, but he ignores them.

It’s a simple matter to take some photos of the Phantom Thieves appearing out of thin air a few minutes later, clear evidence of something supernatural and _other_ at work. Good enough for the next phase of the plan. His next step is to wait for the calling card—Shido assures him Okumura will go to the police when it arrives. Assuming the Thieves’ modus operandi is identical to the previous four palaces’, Akechi simply has to visit the palace the next day and lie in wait.

The plan’s easy. It’s flawless. Akechi’s role is clear. Just the way he likes it.

Even so, he finds himself loitering around Mori Tower in a snapback and surgical mask, hoping to catch the Thieves again. He has no reason to; if it’s for data collection, keeping his files up-to-date, the final showdown is more than enough. And yet he throws hundred and sixty yen down the drain every other afternoon to sit on a bench, listening to the cars roar over Roppongi- _dōri_ , watching for now-familiar faces.

But the days pass, and Ren doesn’t appear. Akechi can’t catch them every time; he has school too, and work at the police station and the prosecutor’s office, and before he knows it, he has a call from Shido.

“Okumura called today. The card’s been sent. I expect everything to be taken care of by the end of the week.”

“As you wish, sir,” Akechi replies, biting back the bile and rage that rises from his stomach every time he has to talk to Shido. The only thing that keeps him together is the knowledge, the promise that one day—one day, Shido will be the one on his knees. One day, Shido will be the one desperate and broken and groveling. _I’ll have your head. I’ll take everything you have from you and watch you burn._

The next call, though, is from Ren.

“Let’s play billiards,” Akechi says, fueled by fury. A need to prove himself. To prove himself worthy, _better_.

But he doesn’t.

He loses. He loses billiards, with his left hand, to Amamiya fucking Ren.

It’s almost funny. He almost laughs. Instead he calls Ren his rival and returns home to stew in his tiny bath. He imagines smashing his traitorous hands with a hammer until his bones splinter into fragments underneath his skin.

Soon he’ll have nothing left.

(Part of him, though, feels comforted.)

The next day he rises bright and early. He checks his schedule; his last class is mathematics. Easy enough to catch up on later. He’ll tell Narukami- _sensei_ that he has something to do at the courthouse and dip out early to head into Okumura’s palace and find himself a crevice to lurk in.

Which is just what he does. It’s a pain in the ass as usual, with palace security amped up to 100%, but he makes it to an overhang of the launch platform a few minutes before the Phantom Thieves show up, decked out in their frivolous costumes. The atmosphere is tense; it always is, on the days they confront the palace ruler. On those days, the palace itself feels _alive_ , pulsing along to an unheard beat. He watches as Okumura forces them to chase him up to to a shiny silver saucer in the sky, and also as they chase him right back down.

He keeps his eyes trained on the new member. Okumura Haru. Third-year at Shujin Academy. Enjoys gardening. Coffee. Code name: Noir, Persona: Milady, specialty: psy, and shields. Loves her father. He wonders, idly, what that feels like.

She’s just as skilled as the rest of them, despite joining so late. She pivots and twists and dodges with ease, swinging her axe with fury and grace. It’s cruel of Joker to put her in this fight, Akechi thinks. But maybe Joker is right. Maybe it would be crueler to force her to stand by and watch, powerless.

The fight ends. The Phantom Thieves turn tail and flee as the palace begins to crumble, and Akechi hops down from his hidden perch, steps fast and feather-light. He reaches Okumura in mere seconds. He’s cowering, sniveling, on his knees, begging for forgiveness, and even as Akechi’s shadow falls over him, doesn’t give any sign that he’s sensed Akechi’s presence.

Akechi thinks about Haru. He thinks about Okumura, who shirked his role as father for money and politics and fame. He can feel Loki struggling to be released. Loki seems to like this part. The part that happens at the end. _Let me_ , Loki says to him. _I’ll give him what he deserves. I’ll drag him down. I’ll drive him mad._

Okumura—of all people, Okumura doesn’t deserve the clean, swift end.

Even so, Akechi cocks his pistol, and shoots.

He doesn’t realize until he’s home that he hasn’t coughed all day.

The press conference is three days later. Akechi sits down in front of his laptop and turns on the stream. He’s only watching to verify that he’s completed his mission; however he feels about the things he has to do, at the very least he does his job well.

But nothing could have prepared him for what he has to watch. Compared to the shutdowns, Okumura’s death is loud, and frantic, and _visceral_. It’s gruesome and horrible and Akechi wants nothing more than for it to be _over_. 

_You did this_ , he tells himself. At some point the sun set, because he’s now sitting in the dark, in front of error bars and a cheerful TV mascot. _You did this._ Some part of him doesn’t believe it. Not quite. The mental shutdowns—fine. Fine. His fault. But not this. Not this.

He’d tried to be merciful, but in the end, it had been nothing of the sort. That’s what he gets for indulging in his own self-satisfaction.

The next stage of the plan is ingratiating himself into the Phantom Thieves. He’s still working out the details when he receives a text from Niijima Makoto inviting him to speak at Shujin’s culture festival.

“You won the vote by a large margin,” her text reads, after all the prim and proper pleasantries befitting Miss Student Council President. “You’re very popular, aren’t you?”

Akechi laughs at how backhanded the compliment manages to be through text.

He makes a show of indecision in his replies, citing his leave from media, alluding vaguely to the work and cases he has to do. But the next phase of the plan has to begin, and in the end, he acquiesces.

He can’t join them with Loki. If he shows himself in that costume—it’s over. The Phantom Thieves aren’t stupid. (Actually, they are, a little, but not _that_ stupid.)

He’s seen Ren talk to the shadows, seen them bend over backwards to fashion themselves into masks for his use. And though Akechi finds it frustrating to admit—he can’t do it. He’s spent so many hours in Mementos since he first saw Ren do it, holding shadows at gunpoint, negotiating, even slapping one in the face, but all he has to show for it is some extra yen and enough foul smelling incense to knock out an full-grown adult, which he doesn’t even know how to use.

His only choice, then, is to force an awakening.

His first awakening—Loki’s—had been excruciating. It had been the night Shido was first elected to the National Diet, and Akechi had been watching the post-election speech on his battered CRT from the recycle shop down the street, sitting in the apartment his high school had given to him as part of his scholarship. Watching as the man who ruined his and his mother’s lives smiled for the reporters, promised change, and championed himself for the common man.

He’d been blind with rage. It was only the knowledge that he couldn’t afford to patch up any holes in the wall, a splitting headache, and the mild fear that he was going insane after hearing a voice in his head that had prevented him from doing anything more stupid than letting out a quiet scream and going to sleep.

The next day, he’d opened up his old, shitty phone to a new app and met Loki. Sly, scheming Loki. He hadn’t grasped the full extent of his power, just that he _had_ it, and that had been enough to convince Shido to not throw him away.

He’s watched the awakenings of some of the Phantom Thieves since then; dramatic, bloody affairs, all of them. Every awakening comes with fury, and desire, and rebellion. What could it be for him, this breaking of chains?

The night before his speech at Shujin, Akechi takes a late night train to Shibuya and makes his way to one of the upper Mementos floors. Loki’s on lookout; Akechi trusts him to take care of any small fry lurking along the twisted corridors.

And then he stands very still, and tries to remember.

He reaches deep inside himself, for the Akechi he was at six, seven years of age. The Akechi he thought he’d forgotten, if not for Ren slowly and steadily prying it out of him. Smiling and wonder-eyed, watching cartoons on his mother’s good days and her bad nights, when she passed out in a pile of beer cans and left the remote wide open.

The Akechi who wanted to be a hero. The one who wanted to save his mother from the man that’d told her pretty lies and cast her aside. The one who, despite everything, was still good and pure in the way that only children can be.

He thinks about joining the Phantom Thieves. He thinks about having _allies_ , people who understand him, other teens who want shitty adults brought to their knees even if society couldn’t give a damn. He thinks about fighting for that amorphous, shining thing—justice, but beyond that, too—the right to simply _live_. To live freely, to choose his own future, to reach for everything the world tells him he cannot have.

He thinks about how he got to where he is now. The blood on his hands. The choices that bind him here. And he _regrets_.

He allows himself, in that one fleeting moment of weakness, to want that different path. To be able to forgive himself for the things he’s done, the person he’s been, and choose another future.

Miraculously—it works. There’s a golden flash, and then he feels something heavy settle on his shoulders. His clothes fit differently. The new mask sits strangely on his face. It extends rather far, throwing off his balance. He brings his hands up to claw at its edges against his skin.

_Ah, the prodigal son returns…_

It’s just the same as it was before. Pain shoots through his skull, bringing him to his knees. He feels as if he’s splitting open, being wrenched apart, someone tearing him apart from the top of his head all the way down to his chest. A new presence, looming behind him. And in his ears, a voice rings, confident, and little bitter.

_Justice, truth. You seek them, but do they really exist in such a world? There are only the trampled, who are too tired for such things, and the evil, who lord above them._

_“_ I know,” Akechi gasps out. “I know, but—”

_If you still wish to fight, then join with me. For the sake of the weary. The forgotten._

“I will,” Akechi grimaces, forcing himself up onto his feet. This feeling, this power—it’s exhilarating. It feels like purpose. “I will.”

_Very well. I am thou, thou art I... with your own hands, grasp the power that has been your birthright all along._

With a roar, Akechi tears the mask clean off. His raw skin stings. Blood drips like tears down his face. He looks down at himself, at the costume the Metaverse has granted him. A double-breasted topcoat with shoulder pads and gold stitching, sleek white slacks. A prince. A hero.

“Come to me,” Akechi whispers, settling the mask back on his face. “Robin Hood.”

He sets his alarm to go in the middle of the session, which it does just in time, saving himself from the rest of Makoto’s inane questioning. She guides him to an unused practice room down the hall, where the rest of the Phantom Thieves are already waiting.

It’s time for the second act. Akechi throws down the photos from Mori Tower with a smirk, along with the promise of a video stored on a his phone. He tells the tale of how he’d entered the Metaverse alongside them,. His harrowing escape from Black Mask. His well-timed, convenient awakening. He tells them that he believes them. That he wants to see them exonerated.

“Let’s strike a deal,” Akechi says, watching the way Ren’s eyes narrow. He hasn’t spoken a word this entire time. All he’s done is watch Akechi with that silent, indecipherable face of his. “Cooperate with me.”

“And if we decline?” Still not Ren. Blue-hair. Yusuke. Fox.

“Then I’ll simply have to turn in all the evidence I have,” Akechi says, barely keeping himself from laughing. What did they think he would say? _Oh, that’s too bad then. I’ll just slink back to my cave and nurse my wounded pride._ What a farce.

“That’s not a deal,” the boy next to him grumbles. Yellow. Ryuji. Skull. “That’s fucking blackmail.”

“Take it or leave it,” Akechi says. He doesn’t want to spend another second here playing this stupid part. He meets Ren’s eyes, and stares. The seconds tick by. Makoto bites her lip. Ryuji scratches his head. Ann crosses her arms. But no one speaks. Akechi knows Ren is the decision-maker here. They all know.

After several excruciating moments, Ren sighs. “Let me think about it,” he says, in that quiet, unassuming way of his. It’s not a no, but it’s not a yes. Akechi is disappointed, but not quite displeased.

“That’s fine,” Akechi says with a smile, preparing to leave. “Let me know once you’ve decided.” He scans everyone else’s faces, all stuck at varying points of concern, confusion, and anger, and tries not to laugh. “I’m sure you’ll come to a favorable decision.”

Ren agrees to his terms, as Akechi knew he would. But in the same text, he’s informed that the first meeting he’s expected at will be in thirty minutes. Leblanc.

“Have you never heard of _advance notice,_ ” Akechi hisses at Ren when he walks into Leblanc twenty-five harried minutes later. (After running from the station and standing a few meters outside the door until his heartbeat stilled, not that he would admit it.)

Ren blinks innocently. He’s wiping the counter. None of the other Thieves have arrived yet. “If you said you couldn’t make it, I would have moved it.”

Akechi wants to smash his face into the bar. “That’s _not_ what your text said.”

Ren shrugs. “It’s you,” he says, which is not an answer, but somehow makes Akechi feel less angry.

“Ren!” Ann sails through the door, wide grin on her face. And then she catches sight of Akechi, and her smile falls, replaced by a less enthusiastic expression.

“Takamaki _,”_ Akechi says with the most polite voice he can muster.

“Akechi,” she says. “So you agreed then, Ren?”

Akechi looks at him, surprised. He didn’t tell the others?

Ren just nods, and goes back to his cleaning.

“Well,” Ann declares, hands on her hips, back to her bright grin. “If Ren’s okay with it, then it’s chill. Welcome to the Phantom Thieves!”

“Welcome?” Ryuji ducks in through the doorway, dressed in an offensively bright yellow t-shirt. “Who’re we welcom—oh. Him.”

“Him?” an unfamiliar girl hops in. She has bright orange hair and big glasses and is nearly swimming in an oversized green sweater. “Oh, you must be Akechi.”

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Akechi smiles politely. He knows who she is. Sakura Futaba. The owner of the pyramid palace and the Phantom Thieves’ navigator. “Akechi Goro, at your service.”

“You’re kind of stuffy,” she replies. “Sakura Futaba. You’re joining us?”

“Ren accepted my terms,” he answers smoothly. She crinkles her nose and doesn’t say anything else.

The rest of the Phantom Thieves trickle in, one by one. Akechi outlines his plans when they’re all there: they’ll target Sae’s palace. Makoto, to her credit, doesn’t immediately protest. He lists out his reasons: he already knows she has one, and changing her heart will help her be an impartial prosecutor and let her see the truth behind the Phantom Thieves’ deeds. Since it’s a palace, there’s a good as chance as any that the mysteriously black masked individual will show up, at which point they can chase him or interrogate him. He talks about his suspicions about the nature of Niijima’s palace, the enemies they might meet, the types of skills they’ll want to brush up on.

The other Thieves pipe up at regular intervals, but Ren is silent until the end.

“Sounds good,” is all he says.

“Then we’ll leave it up to you!” Ann says cheerfully, already packing her things. The other Phantom Thieves are bustling around too, gathering backpacks and jackets. “Message us when it’s show time.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. Akechi was expecting opposition, argument. Skepticism, at least. But the Phantom Thieves had been perfectly cordial, only remarking on practical matters such as Ryuji’s tendency towards physical skills or Haru’s weakness to nuclear attacks. This feels too easy. Sure, he’d put a lot of thought into the plan, because it’s something he’ll be seeing through to the end, and he doesn’t do anything half-assed. But still.

A few moments later, it’s just him and Ren left in Leblanc.

“Well, I’ll also be waiting for your message then,” Akechi says with a wry smile, picking up his jacket.

“Why don’t you stay stay for a bit?” Ren says, before Akechi can put it on. He gets up and makes his way behind the bar. “You haven’t been here in a while. I’ll make you coffee.”

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” Akechi says, too shocked for the thinking part of his brain to kick in and tell him it’s a bad idea. He leaves the jacket and takes his usual seat, watching Ren grind the coffee beans, slowly pour the water over the grounds and filter. It’s pleasant just to observe him, even in the silence.

Ren pours the coffee into a cup and slides it in forward in one fluid, practiced motion. Akechi takes a sip and makes an appreciative noise. It’s _very_ good. Perhaps even better than Boss’. Ren smiles, and starts cleaning up. He always seems to be in motion, when it’s just the two of them.

“You didn’t tell them I was coming?” Akechi finally asks.

Ren shrugs. “I only told Futaba. She’s not good with unexpected people.”

 _Just Futaba_. Akechi feels—no. He feels nothing. “Why not?”

Ren shrugs again. He’s wiping the glasses even though Akechi is pretty sure he already wiped them before the meeting.

“Why not?” Akechi demands. The words come out harsher then he meant. He’s not sure why he wants to know so badly. Why he cares. “Were you afraid of making the wrong decision?” _Am_ I _the wrong decision?_

“No,” Ren replies instantly. “That’s not—I knew I was making the right decision. I was just… afraid?”

“Afraid?”

“Afraid that they wouldn’t agree,” Ren exhales heavily, like it’s hard to say the words. “I thought they’d tell me off. And leave. And I’d be all alone again.”

 _Again_. Akechi wants to ask. But he doesn’t. Instead—“You moron.”

“What?” Ren looks up, genuinely surprised. Akechi chokes back a bitter laugh. Ren, afraid of being left behind? He’s seen the way the Phantom Thieves work, how they look at him. Like they’d follow him to the end of the world.

“They love you,” Akechi says, and he means it. “They trust you with their lives. They would do anything for you, Ren. You don’t understand.”

Ren stares at him for a moment, blank-faced, but then he laughs softly. “It’s weird. It sounds like the truth when you say it.”

“Because it i _s_ the truth,” Akechi huffs, and returns to drinking his coffee. Ren begins to hum as he organizes the coffee beans, something smooth and jazzy. Akechi closes his eyes.

“I wasn’t that afraid,” Ren says, in a low, quiet voice, a few blissful moments later. “I wouldn’t have been alone, really.”

“What do you mean?” Akechi says, and then— _Oh_.

“I would have had you,” Ren says, easy as breathing, and Akechi excuses himself to spend the next five minutes in the restroom waiting for petals that never come.

They set off for the palace for the first time exactly a week after the initial strategy meeting. Akechi isn’t sure what to expect, but it’s actually quite a pleasant experience. Ren puts him on the team from the beginning, which proves to be a wise choice; plenty of the shadows in Sae’s casino are weak to _eiha_ and _kouha_ skills.

Akechi did practice a bit with Robin Hood after his initial awakening, but it still feels a bit strange to cast his skills. The _eiha_ ones, he doesn’t mind; the _kouha_ ones make his skin crawl. But if Ren notices, he doesn’t say anything.

The first time they stop at a safe room, Futaba comes up to him with a glint in her eyes.

“Dude, I _need_ to get more data on you!” she says, almost frighteningly enthusiastic. “Eiha _and_ kouha? Only Joker can use those skills, but he’s weird. Also I don’t think he has a single persona with both.”

“Oracle, chill, my head hurts,” Ryuji says. He’s draped lazily across one of the couches, but he looks genuinely tired. Ren digs through his pack and tosses him… a raw cabbage and a yakisoba pan. “Oh hell yeah, thanks Joker.”

“Crow,” Ren says, and it takes Akechi a moment to register that he’s talking to him, just in time to catch a can of soda flying through the air at him. He looks at the label. It looks familiar—from the time at the bathhouse.

“I don’t drink soda,” Akechi replies. In his peripheral vision he sees Makoto roll her eyes.

“Just try it,” Ren grins. “Actually, I kind of need you to drink maybe… ten of them?”

Akechi gives him the evil eye and pops the can open. It’s really easy to drink, actually—it doesn’t taste like soda. It tastes like his favorite coffee at Leblanc, the one Ren makes for him. And it’s gone in one gulp.

“What _is_ this?” Akechi says, staring at the empty can. 

“Don’t question it,” Ann laughs as she takes a seat next to him. He shifts away from her, slightly. “We all had the same experience. It tastes like something you love, right? And it’s gone in one sip?”

“Mine tastes like Calpis Soda,” Ryuji pipes up.

“Milk for me,” Morgana says.

Ann rolls her eyes. “Ignore them. Pretty cool, right?”

“I… guess,” Akechi replies. And then, a sudden intrusive thought— _is this what it’s like to have friends_?

He looks up. Catches Ren looking at him with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Here, you gotta try this,” Ann plucks a vaguely amorphous mass from the pile of things on the table and offers it to him. Somehow, Akechi manages to hold it in his hands. “Joker’s giving you a hard time, you don’t actually have to drink ten cans of soda. One of these should be enough.”

“What…?” Is he supposed to... eat this?

“Yeah, you just pop it in your mouth!” Ann beams. “It’ll taste—oh, I won’t spoil it. Go for it!”

The fact that everyone in the room is now staring at them should have warned him, but Akechi pinches the… thing between two fingers and puts it in his mouth. Immediately it takes on the taste and texture of natto. It’s somehow natto-ier than natto. Like the essence of everything he hates about natto distilled and amplified in a single mouthful. He pulls out a handkerchief and tries to spit it out, but he can’t, and so with difficulty, he swallows.

He would have preferred ten cans of soda-not-soda to… _this_.

Everyone bursts out laughing. Yusuke mimes a picture frame. Akechi feels a distinct sense of deja vu—the the culture festival. That damned takoyaki.

“Oh my god,” Ann finally says, wiping away tears. “I’m so sorry. That never gets old. What’d it taste like?”

“Natto,” Akechi answers humorlessly. Ryuji pats his shoulder sympathetically, and he almost flinches at the contact.

“Rest assured,” Yusuke says. “We comprehend your suffering. Viscerally.”

“I do it to everyone!” Ann beams, which doesn’t make Akechi feel any better.

“It’s like, initiation,” Futaba says. “I didn’t have to do it though. I don’t need that stuff.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” Akechi mutters under his breath, sending Ann into a fresh fit of laughter.

“It’s Joker’s fault! He’s the one who finds all this stuff!” she says. “And besides, it actually helps, doesn’t it?”

Akechi pauses. Ignoring the lingering aftertaste in his mouth, he does feel a _lot_ less tired than when he first stumbled into the safe room behind the rest of the Thieves. He feels—good, actually.

As if on cue, Ren steps forward from the wall he was leaning against.

“Let’s go,” he says, and they head back into the dungeon.

Working through a palace with the Phantom Thieves is worlds different from watching them from afar.

From afar, he doesn’t get the jokes. The teasing, the banter. The support. As cheesy as it sounds, the bonds. He doesn’t get to listen to Futaba tell Yusuke to _not eat that random thing you just picked up off the ground what the_ fuck _dude_ , or overhear a frankly terrifying conversation between Makoto and Haru about the most efficient way to attack a particular shadow’s weak point, or high-five Ryuji and Ren after particularly skillful attacks.

For a few hours, he almost _forgets_. He forgets that he is Akechi Goro, a boy with nothing. No family, no friends. No one to remember him when he is gone.

In a second moment of weakness, he wonders—just briefly, _briefly_ —what would it be like if he joined the Phantom Thieves for real? If he could—

No. _No_. He chose his path long ago. For the sake of _his_ justice, for the sake of making Shido pay. To stray would be to admit that he chose _wrong_. But—he didn’t _know._ He didn’t know there was a way to change shadows without destroying them; all he knew was that he had the power to make them berserk and that Shido found that useful.

Maybe, in that moment when he first awakened Robin Hood, he could have chosen something different. But that was all it had been—a moment. He’d only done it to craft a new persona for himself, a way to infiltrate and ingratiate himself with the Phantom Thieves.

Why did Ren get Morgana? Why did Ren get a guide? Why does Ren have everyone, everything while Akechi clawed his way up from the darkness only to end up as he’d started, with nothing?

He can’t be wrong. He can’t regret. It’s too late for that now.

Akechi walks into Takemi’s clinic the next week with—absolutely nothing.

No plastic baggie. No petals. Just a coiling in his gut and the knowledge that it isn’t over yet.

Takemi holds out her hand, and he shakes his head.

“Nothing?” she asks.

“Nothing,” he confirms, and she smiles. She smiles a real, genuine smile. Akechi has seen too many of those these days.

“It’s not over yet though,” he comments breezily, and sits down in his usual seat.

“What do you mean?” she asks.

“It’s still… there,” Akechi says, gesturing vaguely towards himself. “I can still feel it. The flower.”

Takemi makes a thoughtful face, and then she leans over and pulls open a set of drawers near her feet. Akechi watches her flip through it, lightning fast, until she plucks one out with a triumphant _a-ha!_

“There’s this particular hanahaki case,” she says, resting the page on her clipboard. “Do you want to hear it?”

Akechi nods as a signal to go ahead, though she probably would tell the story regardless.

“It was a few years ago. A boy and a girl at a Tokyo high school. The girl who had it confessed, and the boy told her he felt the same way. They passed days and nights as a happy couple. But the flower didn’t disappear. She visited the doctor, who was puzzled, and told her it might just take a while for it to finally go away.”

“But it didn’t,” Akechi says. He’s not stupid. He can see the ending of the story. But why is she telling it?

“But it didn’t,” Takemi affirms. “In the end, two days later, she had to get the surgery. The girl’s family was glad she was alive, but both she and the boy were devastated. She hated him—for lying, for tricking her. But he cried and said he’d told the truth and only the truth, and a few days later, he was admitted to the hospital and got the surgery too.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Akechi asks.

“It’s just something to think about,” Takemi shrugs. “It’s the only other case I’ve seen with as unique a prognosis as yours. Love is complicated. A disease that springs from it can only be even more so. That both people can tell the truth and still—there’s a lie, hidden in there somewhere.”

“Stop with these poetic non-answers,” Akechi finally snaps. He’s tired of them. He has a deadline. He has a plan two years in the making to will into fruition. And he thought—last time, she’d told him he was _right_. That he was fine because he’d managed what he wanted to do, stifled his feelings until they wilted and left him. “What are you trying to tell me? That I’m lying? About what? To who?”

“Maybe lying is the wrong word,” Takemi replies, calm and collected as always. “People can’t see what you don’t show them. They can’t know what you don’t tell them.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at—”

“What’s your deal?” Takemi sets the clipboard down on her desk, and looks at him. It’s not quite a glare. Just a cool, intelligent stare. “You won’t get the surgery. You won’t confess. What are you so afraid of?”

Being rejected. Cast aside, left behind. Having to admit he’d taken the wrong path a long time ago. Being past the point of no return. Without his revenge—who is he? Nothing but an empty shell.

“You’re a GP, not a therapist,” he chooses to say instead. “Act like one.”

“As you wish,” Takemi replies with an ironic little curtsy, and he resists the urge to sweep everything on her desk into a broken, useless heap.

“I still consider this an ongoing case,” Takemi says, as he’s leaving. “Don’t go dying on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Akechi replies drily, and he hears laughter as he closes the door.

So the flower is still there. Big deal. The coughing has stopped, so it can’t be very big now. It won’t kill him.

Everything’s fine. Everything will be fine.

The plan starts off without any problems. Akechi brings the police force into the Metaverse during the day, leading them to Police Headquarters and telling them to stay hidden until his signal. They follow his instructions exactly, and Akechi is able to leave the palace with the rest of the Phantom Thieves after Ren takes the briefcase, watching as the drama he painstakingly constructed plays out exactly according to the script. He looks at his watch. His hand shakes, barely. Four hours. Akechi has an appointment with Ren in four hours, though Ren doesn’t know it yet.

The rest of the Phantom Thieves make it out with him, and they huddle together in a circle just outside the Prosecutor’s office in the real world. The others are clearly shaken after Ren’s capture, but Haru and Makoto take charge, gently urging everyone to head home and get some rest after their ordeal. Makoto promises to wring as much information as she can out of her sister, and Futaba makes everyone promise to meet at Leblanc the next day.

Akechi heads home to change into a clean blazer. He grabs a new pair of gloves and the small blade he keeps under his pillow. Ideally he won’t be need to use it, but best to be safe. Then he takes the Yurakucho to Sakuradamon and walks to the Prosecutor’s office, keeping his back straight, breathing steady.

He’s heading to the lowest floor. A purposeful choice, of course. The plan is easy. He rehearses it in his head. He’ll walk down the hallway to Interrogation Room #1, the one farthest east. The guard already knows to expect him. He’ll walk in. Grab the guard’s gun, shoot the guard, then Ren. One, two. Put the gun in Ren’s hand. Walk out. Go home. Rest easy.

Almost immediately, he runs into an unexpected obstacle in the form of Niijima Sae. She’s walking _towards_ him. From the direction of the interrogation room. Of all people, why her? Akechi strolls toward her with as pleasant an expression as he can manage. Was she able to see Ren? What did he tell her?

“Akechi-kun,” she says with surprise as he approaches. “You have authorization here?”

“Yes, I’m on the investigation,” he smiles thinly. _Unlike you_. She might have been, too, for a brief period, but he knows that title has been stripped away by now. She was always just convenient scapegoat for the things that would go wrong.

“Well, since you’re here,” she says, before reaching into her bag for something. Akechi stiffens. He assumes she talked to Ren; did he tell her something? Is she going to shoot him? No, a taser is more likely, and cleaner—

She doesn’t pull out a gun, or a taser. She pulls out a phone and holds it out to him. It’s just a generic smartphone. “Does this look familiar?”

Akechi narrows his eyes. What the hell is she trying to pull? God, he can’t deal with this right now. “No. Whose is it?”

“It belonged to the leader of the Phantom Thieves,” she says. So Ren _had_ talked to her. “I believe you’ll need it for the investigation.”

“Not personally,” Akechi replies. There’s no reason to take it. Everything beyond this point has been meticulously planned and plotted. It’s out of his hands. There will be no investigation, just a dead body and a media circus. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk with the suspect.”

“Understood,” Sae says, tucking the phone back into her bag. Her face betrays no hint of surprise or disappointment. “Good luck, then.”

Akechi hurries down the hallway. The meeting with Sae has rattled him more than he cares to admit, a second hiccup in what has otherwise been several months of almost dull predictability. There wasn’t supposed to be _anyone_ else down here, besides the guard, least of all someone who isn’t under Shido’s thumb. His thoughts grow more and more frantic as he approaches his destination. The guard outside salutes to him.

“Do you mind coming in with me?” Akechi says with a nervous chuckle that’s not entirely forced. “I feel a bit uncomfortable visiting such a violent criminal alone.”

The guard nods. He opens the door and walks in, Akechi following. While his back is still turned, Akechi reaches forward to smoothly pull the gun out of his holster, and shoots.

The guard drops to the ground, blood slowly spreading in a pool around him. _It’s just a shadow, Goro. It’s just like killing shadows._

Akechi turns to Ren, who looks, frankly, absolutely terrible. His glasses are gone, scrapes and bruises patterning the sides of his face. Blood stains the corner of his mouth. His eyes are slightly unfocused, and Akechi notes a syringe on the ground. They drugged him. Unsurprising. Akechi would have preferred him lucid, able to comprehend the full extent of his hatred, but this will have to do.

“Have you figured it out?” Akechi smiles. He smothers all the warm feelings he might have felt while he was with the Phantom Thieves and Ren, camaraderie and friendship and something more. All that’s left is cold, cold resentment—for Shido, who made him this way. For Ren, who was so similar to him, and yet turned out to be everything _good_ that he could not be. He hates him. In this moment, remembering what Ren was given, what he had while Akechi made his way up from _nothing—_ he _loathes_ him.

Akechi feels drunk. Drunk on hatred, drunk on _power_. He raises the gun, presses it to the middle of Ren’s forehead.

“This is how your ‘justice’ ends,” he says, and pulls the trigger.

The flower doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t explode, or choke the life out of him.

But when he gets home and the adrenaline starts to fade, Akechi runs to the bathroom and this time, it’s not flower petals, it’s his dinner. He throws up over and over, thinking about the blood on the ground and on his hands. Ren slumped over the table, blood pooling on it, coating it, dripping onto the floor.

_It’s just like killing shadows. It’s just like killing shadows._

Even after his stomach is empty he retches. Over and over and over. The blood. On the table, on the ground, on his hands. His hands. He thrusts them under the sink and washes them with soap until the skin feels raw and even then it’s not enough. It’s not enough it’s not enough _it’s not enough_.

He doesn’t meet the Phantom Thieves the next day. He doesn’t even get a message about it, actually. Faintly it registers that they must have a group chat without him. That they suspected him all along,

The flower doesn’t go away either. This, too, should register as a warning sign. But he thinks that maybe it’s just mourning. His heart will learn, eventually. It will let go.

He’s been left behind so many times, he thought he’d be used to it by now.

Ren’s death is widely broadcasted, though he’s not mentioned by name. Sae takes a leave of absence. Akechi’s life returns to the way it was before, an endless cycle of schoolwork and police investigations, the occasional episode of the latest popular anime, even a few media appearances where he puts on a show of lamenting Ren’s tragic death. Saying that even he should have been judged properly, under the law. The host gives him a sympathetic look, calls him principled, compassionate, kind-hearted.

Sometimes, he dreams of Ren. Bruised, scraped. Blood at the corner of his mouth. Dream-Akechi wipes it away and kisses him.

Those—those are the better ones.

Takemi calls him when he misses his next appointment. He tells her he’s still alive.

She asks him to come in. He says no, and hangs up.

Then—three weeks before the election, before reckoning—Shido calls him. He sounds furious. Frantic, almost.

“The four. Take care of them ASAP.”

“Why—”

Shido hangs up on him. The four. Akechi knows who they are, but more importantly—

He pulls on his jacket and snapback, runs to the Diet building, and steps into the Metaverse.

They’re there. The Phantom Thieves—they’re in Shido’s palace.

At their front, a familiar figure in black dashes through the ship’s corridors. Crawls through vents. Swings like an acrobat with his grappling hook.

Akechi can’t believe it. Ren is alive. _Ren is alive._ He can’t fathom how they managed it, but the truth is clear—somehow Akechi has been upstaged, _outwitted_ by a group of _morons_ playing _dress-up_.

If they’re alive, Akechi failed his mission. If Shido knows they’re alive, then his natural conclusion will be that Akechi can’t be trusted. The last two years of effort down the fucking drain because he couldn’t even shoot Amamiya Ren point-blank in the head right.

Akechi can’t take on the Phantom Thieves directly. He knows the limits of his ability; even if he could wield both of his personas at the same time, which he can’t, he wouldn’t have even a fighting chance. He bides his time, instead tracking them through the palace, relegated to following them a few rooms behind. A feeling rises, something like nostalgia, and he squashes it.

He gets his chance once they’ve made it deep within the ship, to the engine room, forced to battle several waves of shadows, followed by the cleaner. They’re battered, bruised. He knows the telltale signs of their everyone’s weariness, after Sae’s palace. There’s only one exit, and no safe room for them to escape to and eat their vile foods in.

Akechi jumps down from the rafters, landing lightly. He’d taken care to summon Robin Hood, so he’s dressed in the outfit they’re familiar with, white and red and gold. Even now, he has to keep up appearances.

The Phantom Thieves make various exclamations of surprise. Ryuji calls him a bastard. But Akechi doesn’t care. He only cares about one person here. He’s only looking at Ren.

Ren, unflappable as always, doesn’t give him the satisfaction of being surprised.

“Long time no see,” Akechi says as he steps forward, trying to goad him into a reaction. “I’m impressed. You bested me, fair and square.” Another step. “In another time, we could have been friends. Or rivals.”

Ren shakes his head.

“We’re already rivals,” he replies, which is perhaps the funniest thing Akechi has ever heard. He laughs, short and bitter.

“Aren’t you a free spirit,” Akechi muses. “The opposite of me in every way.”

“What are you doing here?” Makoto interjects. She steps forward, all angry and self-righteous. As she has every right to be. Akechi wants her to shut her damn mouth regardless. “Why are you cooperating with Shido?”

“Cooperating?” Akechi isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to be offended or laugh at the absurdity of the idea. “I have no desire to help Shido. The only thing I want to do is make him acknowledge me.” He looks at Ren. “Remember the time I told you my father was a despicable, rotten man?”

Realization flashes through Ren’s eyes.

“Shido is my father. He left my mother when she got pregnant with me. From the moment I was born I was a curse to both of them.” At this point Akechi isn’t sure who he’s talking to. To Ren? To the Phantom Thieves? To himself, to justify what he’s done? “My mother tried to raise me as best she could, but there was only so much she could do. She died. I crawled out of the gutter to find him, but I was a teenager in a foster home. And then I got this power. I used it to earn his trust. To send him to the very top. And in his greatest moment, I will strike him down and watch him grovel, and he will know who I am.”

He revels in the faces that the Phantom Thieves make. They look at him like he’s fucked up in the head, some kind of monster. And maybe he is. Maybe he _is_.

“You _killed_ people for that!” Ryuji yells, in that unruly, earnest way of his.

“I purged evil from this world,” Akechi replies. “How is that different from the Phantom Thieves?”

“We didn’t _kill_ anyone,” Ann protests. Akechi rolls his eyes. What difference did it make? The people whose hearts they changed—their lives were over. They would spend the rest out of their life in shame, trying to atone, wallowing in guilt. Was that really worse than putting them out of their misery?

“It doesn’t matter,” Akechi snarls. “You interfered. The plan I’ve spent the last two years of my life on is about to fall apart. But I can still fix it. If I kill you. Properly, this time.”

Joker meets his eyes.

“Let’s end this,” he says, in that infuriatingly quiet, unassuming way of his, and steps forward.

Akechi loses.

The important thing, though, is that he loses with Robin Hood. He feels no shame. No sense of sorrow. He would have been disappointed if they _hadn’t_ defeated Robin Hood, honestly. Robin Hood was flimsy, fake. Part of his past. The persona he constructed when he was weak and almost wavered.

“Oh, this is good,” Akechi throws his head back and laughs. “Of course you would be the one to get me to this point.”

He doesn’t wait for a response to finally, _finally_ summon Loki. A comforting presence settles behind him, and the familiar black mask appears on his head. His clothes transform too, white and red and gold turning into black and blue and silver. This is who he is.

Realization dawns on all the Phantom Thieves’ faces. Even Ren’s. Akechi finds a twisted kind of pride in being able to trip him up, even now. And when they ask about the mental shutdowns, voices laced with accusations and fury, and he tells them the truth—he feels no shame. No sorrow.

Loki’s power flows over him, healing his scars, his bullet wounds, encasing him in a soothing, warm bubble. It’s familiar. It feels _right_. This is who he is. Vengeful, and furious, and _alone_.

He lets the feeling soak into him. He embraces it. In this moment—he hates the Phantom Thieves. He wants them _gone._ He wants to show them true power, and he’s willing to do anything for it.

(This, he thinks, might be what freedom feels like.)

The fight is close, he would say. It’s a tough battle. He manages to send Makoto and Ryuji limping to the sidelines, but Morgana and Yusuke take their places. He hacks, he slashes. His sense of self begins to fade in and out like the wavering of a candle. He forgets things. Falls asleep and dreams of broken boys and red gloves. They’re pulling out all the stops and it’s all Akechi can do to hold on, just barely.

But in the end, it’s not enough. He’s not enough. He loses, again, and this time, it is the end.

He’s on his knees and Loki is gone.

(This time, he is truly alone.)

“Go on, then,” he coughs out. “Kill me.”

Ren shakes his head. Akechi looks up, meets his eyes. And there, he finds—

_Oh._

He didn’t realize it, caught up in the frenzy and rush of the fight, but—the flower. It’s gone.

It’s _gone_.

Since when? When did it disappear? Since when did Ren—

At that moment, Akechi hears the clip of shiny patent leather shoes. The cocking of a gun. He looks up—

at his own face.

“Hello,” his face says.

This must be what it feels like to be in a record scratch. A freeze frame. Time stands still as Akechi looks up into barrel of a gun. A pistol. _His_ pistol.

The realization is obvious. Akechi is not a fool. This must be Shido’s cognition of him, armed to kill. He must have been here all along. Of course. Insurance, in case Akechi betrayed him.

 _He never trusted me_.

Akechi doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“You poor thing,” cognitive Akechi says. His eyes aren’t yellow, like most shadows’ are. They’re black, void. Empty. “You thought you were something to him. But you were nothing but a puppet, desperate to be loved.”

“That’s what Shido thinks of you?” Ann suddenly interrupts. She sounds _sad_. For him. Akechi remembers another time, another place. When he stopped hiding, for a moment, and someone _cared_. “Akechi—I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t realize—”

“You’re just like us, dude!” Ryuji. Angry, like he always is. But this time, it’s for Akechi. “These fucked up grownups made you do fucked up things!”

“Go on, then,” cognitive Akechi says. He jerks his head towards the gun still in Akechi’s hand. “You still have a weapon. If you shoot them, I’ll consider sparing you.”

Akechi looks over at the Phantom Thieves. Meets Ren’s eyes. There’s no way Ren knows, the way he does. Ren has never lied to Akechi, and Akechi has—yes, Akechi has always loved him.

Best that he never knows, Akechi thinks. He lifts the gun. Ren doesn’t duck. Doesn’t flinch. He says something but Akechi can’t hear it.

His cognitive self laughs, twisted and demonic, and Akechi takes that moment to spin around and shoot him in the stomach, before pivoting back towards Ren to shoot the safety lock. A pleasant female voice narrates safety instructions as klaxons begin to wail. The emergency shutter rises, creaking and groaning until it hits the ceiling with a _boom_.

He hears shouting from the other side. Crying. Thank god he doesn’t have to see their pathetic sniveling faces as they call his name in desperate, pleading voices.

This is his mess. This is the trap he fell for, and he won’t let them be caught in it too.

“Joker,” he begins. “Ren. I want a final deal.”

His cognitive self is still on the ground, groaning in pain and clutching stomach, but he’ll be up before long.

“Change Shido’s heart in my stead. Make him pay for his crimes. That’s all I’m asking.”

Silence.

“Ren!”

His voice echoes, reverberates off the metal hull of the ship. He sounds pathetic. Desperate, wanting. But he has no choice.

“I promise,” Ren answers.

Akechi hasn’t believed a promise in a long time. He hasn’t _trusted_ , in a long time. But with Ren—with Ren, he knows everything will be all right. Ren will be alive, and Shido will be in jail, and Akechi’s revenge will still be complete.

His cognitive self is back on his feet now, face contorted in pain and fury. He lets out a demonic, guttural scream, the cry of a wounded animal. Pathetic. He’s pathetic.

How ironic, Akechi thinks, that his final enemy would be himself. How poetic. Maybe he can tell Takemi about it, sometime. She might get a kick out of it.

He raises his pistol with a smile. A genuine one.

And then he shoots.

**epilogue;**

“The flowers are new,” Ren remarks. Takemi’s gaze flits to the pot at the corner of her desk, and she smiles.

“A recent gift,” she says, quietly. “From a former patient.”

“Hydrangeas,” he notes. He’s learned a thing or two from Rafflesia. Takemi nods.

“His weren’t blue, though,” she says. “They were white.”

Ren doesn’t reply. He simply hands her the pot of gloriosa daisies, and walks out.

**Author's Note:**

> hydrangea: gratitude for being understood // gloriosa daisy: justice
> 
> every single time i tell myself im done writing fic and then this shit happens. i didn't write this. the ghost of my teenage self possessed me and i came to with this in front of me. also can someone remotely hack my computer and disable my dash key for me. thanks
> 
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/tsunemories) if you want to yell at me about literally anything. thanks for reading this hot mess!


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